


I’ll stop wearing black (when they make a darker color)

by anthora09



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Stream of Consciousness, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthora09/pseuds/anthora09
Summary: Crowley protects his angel with dire consequences. Luckily, Aziraphale is there to catch him when he falls.





	I’ll stop wearing black (when they make a darker color)

**Author's Note:**

> Felt angsty, might delete later ;) Co-written with a bottle of champagne and a power outage. No beta. Inspired by Fall Out Boy, my love of whump, and a rewatch of the Wesley Snipes (aka Michael Sheen) episodes of 30 Rock.

Black hid the blood. Didn’t matter whose. Human. Demon. Angel. In this case, it was decidedly demon.

His thoughts were stumbling. Stumbling? Stuttering? Struggling! That was the word, that oh-so-human word. Struggle. Struggle bus. The struggle is real. He giggled to himself—giggled!—and listed to the side. His hand met the slick brick wall, wet with rain. Or was it blood. He looked down at his palm, a bad idea since it was the only thing supporting him, and he stumbled to the ground.Stumbled! There it was. He knew something was stumbling. Wrong. It felt wrong. His chest hurt. Something was the matter.

He supposed it _did_ matter. Whose blood, that is. Black hid the blood, and it mattered that it wasn’t the angel’s. Didn’t matter that it was his though. He’d bleed and bleed and bleed. Always bleeding for a cause. Heaven’s, hell’s, his. One side then the other. Bleeding. Bleeding heart. His angel was a bleeding heart. A good heart. His heart.

He grabbed his chest. The knife hadn’t gone in deep, but it _hurt._ Holy water would do that, he supposed. Rather cruel of heaven to forge the blade in holy water. Cruel. Hmmm. Wasn’t fair for heaven to be cruel. Wasn’t right. Miracle it hadn’t killed him. Miracle. He needed a miracle.

He struggled to his feet. One hand braced the wall, the other gripped his heart. He needed to get to the angel, his angel. Needed him, help, heart. He didn’t know. His heart. His head. It spun, all of it, his vision, turning, twirling, spinning, falling. He was falling. He was—

“Crowley?”

Caught.

“Zira.”

“Crowley! What in God’s—Satan’s—what in the world are you doing here?”

Caught. He caught him, his angel. Caught him when he’d fallen.

“Falling.”

And he was—fallen—right into the crook of the angel, his head pressed between his neck and his shoulder. The edge of his hair tickled his cheek. Soft. And steady. He nuzzled into it.

“So soft.”

“Are you drunk?”

Drunk. He could go for a drink. Or two. Three, maybe. Three drinks with his angel. A bottle of wine open between them, the fire crackling, the light of Aziraphale’s smile.

“Mmmm, sounds nice.”

“Crowley—“

“Ngh, stop.” He didn’t like that tone. Angry. Admonishing. He pulled back from the angel. “Let’s go home.”

He grabbed at his angel, and the truth spilled from their hands.

One hand: white, open, clean. The other: red, grasping, bloodied.

“Crowley, your hand, your—” He didn’t like that tone either. Liked it even less, in fact. It made something in him tighten. Hurt. He hurt. The angels hurt him. His angel hurt him. Afraid. Agonized. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t.

“Stop, Zira,” he said with sudden urgency. He had to say it, had to make things right. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Making it right, making sure his angel was alright? “S’okay. S’fine. I’m—“ he took a step, and for the second time, his body failed him. For the second time, his angel caught him.

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Aziraphale soothed. His voice was low and quiet. A heavenly hum, better than the choirs and trumpets. Better than dinner at the Ritz and crepes in France.

“S’alright,” Crowley agreed. He was happy Zira understood. “Fought them off. They won’t be coming back again. Not here, not you.”

Had he been any more coherent, Crowley would have felt Aziraphale’s shoulders slump, heard his breath hitch, felt the tear that fell into his hair (and what a lovely fall it was). Instead, all he heard was the softly whispered words of his angel.

“Let’s get you home, m’dear. Let’s get you home.”

He didn’t feel the slump, hear the hitch, or feel the tear, but something uncoiled in him like the snake he was. 

_Home_.

A word, a balm, a miracle.

His ravaged chest began to heal.


End file.
